“Agin’s legacy,” Bolt said. “He regarded everyone with suspicion, even his family.” He shrugged. “Especially his family.”
“How do you know that?” I asked. To me, the Wars for the Gift of Kings were ancient history, buried over five hundred years in the past.
“Pellin knew him, remember?” Bolt’s expression might have shifted from stoic to wry, or maybe the light had changed. It was hard to tell. “Whenever Pellin grew tired of his books and wanted to talk, he would tell me about the war and speculate on the reason behind Agin’s insanity.”
I’d heard discussions of it in my time as a novice in the Merum order. “Did he attribute it to alchemy or inbreeding?”
Bolt cocked his head to one side. “Pellin’s theories ran in other directions.”
Maybe I saw him glance north, toward the forest. Perhaps I caught the hitch in his speech. For whatever reason, I pulled in closer to my guard, driven by an irrational fear that filled me. “He thinks Agin went to the forest?”
Bolt didn’t nod, but for a few seconds he looked at me without blinking.
“Does he know he went there?”
“There are few secrets that can be hidden from the gift of domere.”
I had to remind myself to breathe. “That casts a different shadow. What did Agin hope to gain?”
“No one knows,” Bolt said, “and thanks to the men and women who killed him and his family, no one got a chance to find out.”
I couldn’t tell if my guard was being sarcastic or not, but in the end I decided it didn’t matter. Agin had been defeated, and we were left with the dwimor as the price of our victory.
Lieutenant Astyrian set a pace through the crowded streets that had those on foot jumping out of the way. The city walls straddled the river on both the west and east side. Massive ironwork sealed access to the city from the river, preventing traffic.
Bolt pointed at the gates, black and pitted with age but still staggering in size. “Boclar’s serious about the threat of assassination. The river is the lifeblood of merchants in Vadras. Blocking water traffic through the middle of the city and diverting them around is costly business.”
If possible, the heat and humidity within Vadras were even worse than Cynestol, but after weeks acclimating to the southern sun, I ignored the weather as best I could. I needed to convince King Boclar to accompany me to the Darkwater and his reputation for seeing through people’s motives worried me. Would my flaws cost us his favor?
After thirty minutes, we rounded a corner and came in sight of the citadel, a squat building surrounded on all sides by water.
“It’s always reminded me a bit of Bunard,” Bolt said. “Not nearly as effective—the land in this region is too flat to make the moat more than a last desperate gesture of defiance—but it also means that Boclar could close off the citadel and the city at a moment’s notice to keep anyone from getting out.”
“Not exactly a cheerful thought,” I said.
Rory laughed. “And you still swim like a rock.”
At the far end of the bridge we dismounted. A dozen soldiers, with pages again, waited in the heat. Their blue linen shirts and trousers looked as light as craft and gift could make them but every man kept a waterskin as well as a weapon.
Instead of allowing us to pass through, the soldiers at the gate relieved us of our weapons, and we waited until another twelve men and women with pikes came to take charge before we were herded into the citadel.
The artwork decorating the walls consisted of complex designs and intricate patterns instead of scenes depicting battles or history that I had seen in other courts. Even the sculptures strove for geometric complexity rather than depiction, but it was the music that truly caught my attention. We passed through a hall where a group of merchants or lesser nobles attended a quartet of musicians practicing their art. Instead of the lilting strains that accompanied the formal dances of the north, I heard complex rhythms and dissonance that resolved in unexpected ways.
“Intriguing,” I said out loud.
“A different music for a different people,” Bolt said.
The music faded, but even after the echoes of the last notes vanished, I kept listening, as if they would somehow continue into the expected finish if I just waited long enough. We kept walking, and in the end, we never turned. The hallway we’d entered from the south gate led us as unerringly as the flight of an arrow to the center of the citadel, the massive domed hall of the King of Caisel. When I remarked on it, Bolt nodded.
“I’ve always preferred the tor in Bunard. That craggy flat-topped peak forced the builders to use their imagination.”
Boclar’s court was nearly empty. A few functionaries passed through with the floor-focused gaze of those who have no time or inclination to engage in idle conversation, and no music, juggling, or entertainment of any kind filled the domed space. The lieutenant exchanged a few words with a man in dark blue with a yellow sash on his right shoulder. Together, all of us stepped toward the center of the hall and the round dais that filled it.
“It’s empty,” Rory said.
Mirren nodded. “It’s customary to acknowledge the seat of power in Caisel, even if it’s unoccupied.” At a look from Rory, she shook her head. “When we get to the dais, just bow toward the throne as though King Boclar were sitting on it.”
“Strange custom,” he said.
“Most of them are until you learn the history behind them,” she answered. “Then many of them just seem outdated.”
As soon as we made our bow, the functionary, the lieutenant, and all the soldiers guided us toward the east exit of the hall.
“Our crowd is growing, yah?” Rory said. “If we keep this up, we can just bring the whole kingdom to see him.”
A few
